Hall of Memory
by Star of the Wolf
Summary: In the aftermath of Regina's torture at Greg's hands, Regina isn't coping quite as well as it may seem.


**Disclaimer:** Once Upon a Time and all characters there related to do not, in any way, belong to me. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit was made from the writing of this story. So please don't sue. Honestly, you'd get absolutely nothing but a nervous breakdown and a penniless teen.

**Rating/Warnings:** Teen; rated teen for non-graphic torture and language (particularly one word)

**Time frame:** shortly after the arrival in Neverland. I realize that, according to the show, they never spent a night on the beach, but just go with it. Please?

**A/N:** Hey everyone, Aradel here! So I've been working on this oneshot for a while now (ever since I watched the season 2 finale, which was right about when season 3 premiered. Thus them being in Neverland...), and I found that it really, really bothered me how Regina's torture was _never _addressed again in the show. I don't care what Regina has been through in the past (which has been left aggravatingly vague), no one walks away from being tortured for hours without some sort of mental (and physical, I might add, although that's not the main focus of this) repercussions. That's just not the way it works. So this came about. As you'll see, it kinda morphed into more than just about that, but that was my main purpose.

I'd positively love feedback. I'm still only just beginning to dabble in the wonderful realm of Once Upon a Time, and as such, I'm still trying to figure out the characters and tone and all of the other stuff that comes along with writing fanfiction in a new fandom. So yes, any and all feedback (so long as it is constructive) would be much appreciated, even if it's a simple "I liked it!" so at least I know I'm doing something right. However, even more important than that...well, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**-Hall of Memory-**

She was cold. She forced her eyes open, blinking in the soft glow of the harsh florescent lights, and shivered. That was when she felt them, the leather cuffs around her wrists, her knees, her stomach, holding her down and binding her to the metal table beneath her.

For a moment she was filled only with blind panic, a wild thought of _No, not again _racing through her mind. She tried to will them away, tried to incinerate them, but nothing happened. She felt cold within as well as without, the ball of fire that was her magic nothing but a hard sphere of encased metal. She struggled, twisting and pulling at her restraints until her wrists popped and she was gasping for breath.

"It's useless, you know." She looked up, mind still foundering in the throes of her panic, only to find Greg – no, Owen – smiling at her. But there was no warmth to the expression, and his eyes were as cold as steel. "You can't escape me," he went on, tilting his head to the side as his smile grew.

Emotion filtered into his eyes, sparking them into a flickering gleam, but almost at once she thought that perhaps she liked them better cold. It was glee that shone in his eyes, and as he leaned over her, it grew into anticipation. She strained away from him, turning her head and fighting once more to free herself, but his fingers closing around her neck stilled her. He forced her head down, his hold tightening just enough that she had to struggle to breathe as he leaned down further still, until his mouth was right beside her ear. "You will never escape me, Regina."

And then she was screaming, as a current of electric fire raced through her body, the crackle and hum of the box with little blinking lights of green and red drowned out by her tortured, strangled cries. Owen stood above her, looking down as her body seized and spasmed, that sick, gleeful smile still etched into place.

Just as quickly as it had started, the current died. She collapsed against the metal surface of the table, breathing heavily and trying to control the spasms that clenched at her muscles. Owen leaned against the table and then smiled down at his captive.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" he asked. Regina didn't answer, keeping her jaw locked shut. She conjured just enough strength to glare at her torturer, although the look was weak and without any real sting.

"I am glad to see you've found your spirit again," Owen told her, and there was real amusement in his voice. "It will make this all the more fun." He reached over, twisted the dial on the machine, and flicked the switch.

"Why are you doing this?" Regina gasped, after Owen at last turned off the machine again. She was shaking nearly uncontrollably, her muscles cramping and her head splitting with pain as if a nail was being driven through her skull.

"You killed my father," Owen replied simply. "You deserve this."

"Owen, I-" But Owen had already turned the machine on again, and whatever Regina had meant to say was lost in her scream.

Twice more Owen turned off the power, and twice more he waited only long enough to hear Regina's choked, half-sobs as her body betrayed her will, before dialing up the energy, and flicking the switch once more. And then he was turning it off again, and walking over to stand beside Regina.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I was just trying to protect you!"

"Oh, I know," Owen said.

But then suddenly Owen's face was changing, twisting as it morphed until it was no longer Owen standing above her, but rather a tall, dark-haired man with a leering smile etched across his pointed, pixie-like face. And when he opened his mouth, it was no longer Owen's voice that came forth, rolling through the cold air. It was Daniel's.

"But you failed."

"Daniel?" Regina choked out, and her voice broke.

"You always fail," Danny went on, as if he hadn't even heard Regina. "You hurt everyone and everything that you touch. Your hands are _covered _in blood, Regina – they are _dripping_."

"Daniel…" Regina begged, her breath shuddering.

"You deserve this," Daniel said, cutting off Regina's weak plea. "You deserve to suffer for all you have done."

And then he turned on the machine once more.

* * *

"Regina. Regina!"

Someone was calling her name, shaking her harshly. She awoke with a gasp and a cry that was strangled and more than half a sob, before choking on her own voice as she swallowed the sound instinctively. She twisted, pulling away from the hands that grasped her shoulders, rolling to her knees to face the person that her mind screamed was an attacker. It was an instinctual defense – a movement only half-remembered but never truly forgotten.

Mary Margaret looked startled at Regina's sudden movement, and her hand was still outstretched from where she had been holding the older woman's shoulder. She dropped her arm down to her side quickly, but the worried expression that was stamped into her eyes and drew her eyebrows down low didn't ease.

There was silence for only a second, although it felt like an eternity as step-mother and step-daughter watched each other, one warily (and perhaps even fearfully), the other with concern. It was Mary Margaret who spoke first.

"Regina," she asked quietly, "are you okay?"

It was then that Regina felt them, warm and wet as they slid down her cheeks. _Tears?_ She reached up, almost frantically, and scrubbed the tears away. "I'm fine," she said gruffly, although she avoided Mary Margaret's eyes.

"Regina…"

"I said I'm fine," Regina snapped savagely, standing brusquely and knocking away the hand that Mary Margaret had extended. "And don't touch me," she added with a snarl. She began to stalk away from the makeshift campsite, heading toward the thick jungle that pressed close to the beach, and the thick, dark shadows that lay beneath the trees welcomingly.

"Regina, I-"

Regina whirled at Mary Margaret's touch on her elbow, raw and unbridled fury rising in her throat like bile. The magic exploded out of her without thought or caution, and it slammed into the younger woman, sending Mary Margaret flying. She crashed onto the sand some six feet away, the breath driven from her lungs.

Regina advanced on the helpless woman. "Is that all you can say, _Snow_?" she hissed venomously. "'Regina'," she mimicked, coming to stand over Mary Margaret, who had only just sat up slowly, panting to regain her breath. "I am not one of your poor, lost souls to heal, and do not think for even a _second_ to even try. Do you understand me?"

Mary Margaret tilted her head, sorrow staining her eyes. "Oh Regina," she sighed softly – so softly she was not even certain that Regina had heard them.

Regina sneered. "As I said," she went on, giving no indication if she had heard Mary Margaret's words or not, "don't touch me again."

"Hey!" The shout drew Regina's attention to the edge of the camp where David had only just appeared, carrying an armful of firewood. He dropped the sticks and broken chunks of branches upon seeing Regina standing threateningly over his wife and lunged forward, drawing his sword as he ran across the sifting sand. "What are you doing?" he yelled at Regina. "Get away from her!"

Regina stepped away from Mary Margaret with a sniff of disdain. She spared a glance for David, who was still running towards his wife, and sneered in contempt. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the sword spinning from David's grip to land point-first in the sand nearly four paces away. Before either David or Mary Margaret could say anything, however, Regina cut in.

"I will say this one more time," she said, loud enough for David to hear although her voice was dangerously low and calm. "Do not touch me. And don't," she hissed, "try to follow me." She leveled a cold glare at the motionless woman at her feet, and with that, she whirled on her heel and resumed her walk toward the jungle.

Behind her, Regina could hear David hurrying to Mary Margaret's side, could hear his low voice as he softly asked if she was okay. And even more softly she could hear Mary Margaret try to reassure her husband, and then begin to explain what had happened. She tuned them out, focusing only on keeping her back straight, and her iron mask in place as she crossed the last few remaining yards to the jungle.

The cool shadows welcomed her, enveloping her and drawing her close in a comforting embrace. Shadow – so long as it was not complete darkness – had always been her friend, hiding her in its soothing cloak. And it welcomed her now, soothed her. Hid her.

She didn't make it far before, just as abruptly as it had risen in her, the anger that had fueled her furious flight from the campsite evaporated. The wall that she had thrown up around her thoughts and memory of the nightmare crumbled, leaving her feeling raw and exposed. Phantom charges of electricity raced through her veins, pulsing in time with her heart, and it felt, just for an instant, as if she could hear her screams echoing in her ears once more.

She stumbled, then collapsed, falling to her knees amid the tall, sweeping ferns. She clenched her jaw, fighting to keep herself silent as a choked cry smoldered in her chest and clawed at her throat. Pressed her hands against her eyes, against her ears, against her mouth as the sob pushed against her lips.

She could remember clearly – oh so clearly – the look in Owen's eyes as he looked down at her. Fury, and hatred, and enjoyment as he had watched her suffering. But she hadn't screamed then – not really. She hadn't allowed him the pleasure in hearing her truly scream. That was only in her nightmares.

She could remember it all with perfect clarity. Even through the haze that had taken her mind, and through the piercing agony of each course of electricity, she could remember Owen's eyes, his smile. She could remember the way he had laughed at hearing her bitten off cries. And she could remember wondering, for the first time in the many years since she had become the Evil Queen, if this was what her own victims had felt.

The moist soil of the jungle floor met her shoulder as she curled into a tight ball. For a moment – just for a moment – she allowed herself that weakness. There, hidden by the curling fronds of a giant fern where no one could see her, she allowed herself to be weak. She allowed herself to feel the fear, and terror, and hopeless pain until she bled it from every pore, every scar on her heart. It ran like blood through every chink in her armor, every crack.

She gasped, struggling to regain control. She forced it back – all of it: the pain, the despair, the fear – forced it back into the steel box lodged behind her heart. She was stronger than this. She was _strong_. She could not afford to be weak. Not now, especially not now.

She bit her lip until it bled and clenched her hands until her long, carefully manicured nails bit deep into her palm. She latched onto the pain, seized it, and used it as cord to bind the steel box shut.

And then the anger came. Rippling fury that burned her blood and seared her thoughts seized her, washed through her, until there was nothing else. Anger at Owen, at Tamara, at Pan…but mostly anger at herself.

_This is your fault_ she wanted to scream at herself. _If you had been stronger; if you hadn't been so weak…but you _are_ weak. You're _pathetic_. You are so. _fucking._ weak._ Another scream grew in her throat, but this was one of fury and of loathing. Her tongue burned as she fought it back, and she clenched her teeth together so hard it hurt.

A sound, like a gentle footfall, came from just beyond the screen of leaves that sheltered Regina from the rest of the world. Leaves rustled, and a twig snapped.

Regina acted upon impulse and without caution, her rage fueling her magic until it raged within her like a storm-tossed sea. The curse flew from her fingertips swifter than an arrow from a bow, rustling the leaves as it passed. And then came a thud that only Regina could hear as her curse struck flesh.

It was only as she emerged from her hiding place that Regina wondered if it was one of the Idiots. She had warned them to stay away and not to follow her though, hadn't she? _And besides_, she thought with a cruel twist of her lips, _would it not be ironic if, after all of this time, it was an ill-timed curse that killed one of them, when all of my best laid plans have gone awry?_

It was not one of the Idiots, and neither was it any other human being. It was merely an animal. Small, and grey, and cloaked with bushy fur, it resembled a mouse or a squirrel. Regina knelt and picked up the corpse by the tail, and its eyes stared back at her, glassy in death, and filled with fear.

Abruptly, Regina's fury evaporated. And as the cold, dead eyes stared sightlessly at her, she felt as if her heart bled to match.

_Your hands are covered in blood, Regina – they are dripping._

Daniel's words echoed in her mind until she could hear nothing else. She felt sick and filthy, as if she was truly covered in blood. She could feel it on her, staining her clothes, running down her hands, her arms, her face. She was drowning in it – drowning in the blood of her victims. How many of them had screamed? How many had begged her for mercy?

The corpse fell from her hands listlessly as she leaned over and began to wretch. Her body heaved as it tried in vain to purge itself of its fear and guilt. Yes…guilt. It was filling her, clawing at her, sinking into her heart and mind. This was her fault, all her fault. Wasn't she supposed to be doing better? Wasn't she supposed to be redeeming herself? But how could she ever atone for all of the wanton murder and pain she had doled out?

Her eyes fell on the stiff corpse lying on its side, its bushy tail trailing limply behind it. "I'm sorry," Regina whispered. "I'm sorry." She touched a finger to its fur. And then, with a strangled sob, she shoved every ounce of magic that she could muster into the small body. It flipped, convulsing in midair, and then flopped back to the ground. "Come on," she hissed, and touched it again, sending another wave of power through the dead creature. Muscles contracted, stretched, moved in a parody of life, and hope flared in Regina's heart. But as soon as she took her finger away – as soon as the flow of magic was cut off – the creature went still once more, its eyes glassy, its tail limp.

There is no remedy for death – no way to heal that hurt, or right that wrong. But she should have known that better than anyone.

She put her head down and she buried her face in her hands, unable to look at the corpse any longer. And then, for the first time in her long and bloody life, Regina Mills began to weep for a life she had taken.

_Fin._


End file.
